


my homeroom angel is the centerfold

by WillowsAndWastelands



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Teaches Religion, Catholic School Alternate Universe, Crowley Teaches Biology, Fluff, Get Together, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, We Love Two (2) Dumbasses, and they fall in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-15 01:50:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowsAndWastelands/pseuds/WillowsAndWastelands
Summary: The unfortunate thing about getting a bachelor’s degree in biology is that there’s not a whole lot the idiot who slaved away at university for four bloody years can do with it.It was by process of elimination that he found himself teaching secondary-school level science--- at a private, Catholic institution nonetheless.As bad as it initially sounds, this is where he meets Aziraphale: the philosophical religion teacher with sponge-cake hair and the softest smile (that he doesn't have a shot in hell at not falling in love with.)Maybe those nuns were right. God works in mysterious ways.





	my homeroom angel is the centerfold

**Author's Note:**

> alright, everybody! first good omens fic, let's do this. 
> 
> FIRSTLY: THE IDEA FOR THIS FIC COMES ENTIRELY FROM @SPICYWILLGRAHAM ON TUMBLR, WHO I ASKED IF I COULD WRITE THIS AND THEY SO GRACIOUSLY SAID YES. EVERYBODY SAY "THANK YOU FOR THE WONDERFUL CONCEPT" 
> 
> this will be a multiple chapter fic, no worries. 
> 
> if you enjoy, please leave a comment bc i lov talking to y'all!
> 
> hope you like it!

_ yellow sponge cake _

_4 eggs._

_1.5 cup powdered sugar._

_1 cup all-purpose flour._

_1 tsp baking powder._

_3 Tbsp melted butter._

_Tbsp hot water._

_1 Tbsp vanilla extract._

 

 

 

The unfortunate thing about getting a bachelor’s degree in biology is that there’s not a whole lot the idiot who slaved away at university for four bloody years can do with it. 

 

There’s botany, but Crowley considers gardening to be more a hobby than anything else. Low-level pharmaceutical positions, but his customer service skills leave something to be desired (a vast understatement, he’s sure anyone who’s worked with him would say.) 

 

It was by process of elimination that he found himself teaching secondary-school level science--- at a private, Catholic institution nonetheless. 

 

_Jesus Christ_. Pun intended. Bless his soul.

 

In the holy spirit of honesty, Crowley has never fit in very well amongst the churchgoers; never really found a place to sit in the Kumbaya circle, pockets always conveniently empty when they passed the collection platter onto his lap. 

 

If he’s putting it nicely, he’ll explain that he’s just not the godly type. 

 

But if he’s putting it bluntly (the far more likely scenario), he’ll elaborate so far on his beliefs as to so eloquently say that organized religion is a load of capitalist _horseshit_ designed to sell Hallmark cards, keep people in boxes, and control the masses’ perspectives on morality via impending fear of damnation. 

 

It’s nothing less than a miracle that he got the job (which pays rather handsomely in comparison to his prior eight-year gig that he’d taken straight out of college at some tiny public school in Manchester) and it’ll be nothing less than a miracle if he keeps it. It’s just a ticking time bomb waiting to explode in one of two ways: either the administration will fire his downright sinful ass, or he’ll quit because he can’t take hearing another bloody psalm without blowing his precious, nearly-overqualified-but-not-quite brains out. 

 

Yeah. He’s fucked. 

 

However, it must be taken into consideration that Crowley might potentially be the most hedonistic person on the planet. Though he objectively realizes this is all an awful idea, he absolutely can’t resist the double temptation of making a shit-ton of money and a shit-ton of trouble, however short-lived the venture may be. 

 

But if the first day is any indication, he might not even make it to the classroom--- let alone the whole year. 

 

He’s just trying to mind his business, sneaking into the mandatory staff meeting before school starts only one inconsequential hour late (his ever-fickle orchids began exhibiting early symptoms of blight--- treatment simply couldn’t be postponed), when the heavy door he’s attempting to quietly pry open abruptly swings out with an answering vengeance; clocking him like the brute force of a sucker-punch across his left eye. 

 

“ _Fuck!_ ” he groans, more on instinctual principle than anything else. The sudden pain of the blow distracts from the fact that he’s losing his balance, and before he knows it enough to do anything about it, he’s falling, falling, like an idiot into—

 

Arms. Soft, supportive arms that are pulling him back up; flexing their grip protectively on his shoulders as they do so. Arms evidently attached to one very loud and very apologetic person. 

 

“My dear heavens! I am so sorry— please forgive me, I am so sorry! I didn’t see you there--- are you alright?” an anxious, tenor voice rambles, clearly belonging to the absolute buffoon that must’ve somehow both hit and caught him (pretty goddamn quickly for someone who slams open doors like a fucking barbarian)  “Please, forgive me, I---”

 

“Oh, _shut up_ ,” Crowley snaps, irritated beyond belief about having a shiner for the first time since freshman year of university, bringing up a tentative hand to cover the injured eye. His vision is hazy and therefore unreliable; blurred between manful tears and what has to be some incredibly impressive bruising by the feel of it. But from what Crowley can see, the man before him is a short, swaying blur of white and yellow. He directs his questions towards the pale blob: “Who the bloody hell are you? Professor Dickhead?”

 

“No, no, I’m--- I’m Mr. Fell. But by all means, call me Aziraphale. Much less daunting, don’t you think?” the blob responds with painful sincerity, ending in a nervous chuckle that’s somehow as high as it is uncomfortable. The blob--- Aziraphale, apparently--- clears his throat before continuing more confidently, “I teach religion. Philosophy, really. And you must be---”

 

“Crowley,” he interrupts, just to be a dick (it was clear from the other man’s tone he knew that already.) “And if you put a ‘Mister’ anywhere _near_ my name, I’ll tell the kids I got a black eye because you punched me.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale assures, once again disproportionately earnest; seemingly borderline desperate to convince Crowley of his innocence. “You’ll have to allow me to apologize at least once more, I do swear that I intended you no harm.”

 

“Don’t worry yourself,” Crowley placates, not even really thinking about it; just wanting the poor man to calm down before he hyperventilates or something. While he’s talking, he feels his face pulls tight against the angry inflammation of the injury, materializing a relatively dull pain that can most likely be numbed by a little ice and some ibuprofen. “I’ll live, I’m sure.” 

 

“I am certain as well, but if you could tolerate my company for just a while longer, might I escort you to the nurse’s office?” Aziraphale asks, again with that downright unsettling sincerity. “I just feel so hideous for inflicting that injury upon you, and it would make my conscience much lighter if I knew with certainty you were properly taken care of. Please, it’ll only take a---”

 

“Alright, alright,” Crowley concedes, tiring of the other man’s incessant chatter. Brevity is the soul of wit and all that jazz. “Lead the way, go on.” 

 

He tries his best not to startle when a warm, guiding hand settles itself across his back (he forgot how touchy the Jesus-folk are), but it’s a close thing.  

 

As though Aziraphale read his mind (or maybe just his body language), he doesn’t attempt to make any more unnecessary conversation; just holding him firm as they weave around corners, down dark hallways that reek of stale wine and antiseptic. Crowley’s beginning to ponder the possibility that he may now be employed in a dungeon rather than a school when Aziraphale slows all the sudden and turns them into the first room they’ve seen with an electric light in it. 

 

“Madame Nurse Tracy isn’t present today, I believe,” Aziraphale says, settling Crowley onto something soft and crinkly--- a patient table. “She’s ill with… something. Dreadful business, I’m sure, if it caused her to miss the first day. Bless her; she’s usually so punctual.” He sighs, the sound sorrowful like he’s pitying her for missing work. He perks up pretty quickly, though, adding: “No matter. I’ve received first aid training— mind you it’s not proper, as it was learned from the Internet. But we will just have to make do.”

 

“Some Advil will work fine for me, thanks,” Crowley says,  wiping his uninjured eye until he can see out of it again and hopefully search for the pills. “There’ll be no need for a medic.” 

 

One thing should be made clear about Crowley above all else: he is a man of science. Of reason. Logic. He does not entertain belief, nor faith, nor poetry. He respects only what is real. Founded in objective reality. No time for pointless fantasies. 

 

So it can be inferred that looking at Aziraphale is, for lack of a better word, a perspective-changing experience. 

 

The first thing Crowley notices are his eyes (cliché, though true.) Nothing particularly interesting about the color; they’re just an average shade of brown that can be seen in a billion other average people’s skulls. No, what draws Crowley in is their impossible expressiveness: how wide and seemingly unconsciously vulnerable they are as they pore over his injuries with unabashed concern—the unguarded kindness and sincerity that lurks on the surface area alone. They’re the eyes of someone indisputably, fundamentally, and holistically _good._

 

And then Crowley sees his face in its entirety; the yellow-sponge-cake colored hair that frames it, the blushed cream skin adorned with more laughter lines than Crowley can ever recall seeing on anyone, a gently placed nose and an even gentler jaw— his entire complexion reminiscent of candlelight. Beauty. Like a yellowed book who’d earned every drop of infinite love given by the lucky reader that owned it. 

 

Like the things Crowley doesn’t believe in and very, very abruptly wants to. 

 

“— an ice pack for the swelling and some ibuprofen for the pain,” Aziraphale is saying as Crowley tunes back in, shaking himself out of his stupor. A freezing-cold, hard box is placed into his hand, waking him up a little more. And when he doesn’t immediately react (still looking at the other man’s face with what has to be an idiot’s wonder) Aziraphale patiently nudges the item up to his injury. “Hold it there, please.” 

 

“Could I have some— uh,” Crowley says, momentarily forgetting what he’s trying to get out when Aziraphale’s unabashedly intense gaze falls on him once again, and it’s like being looked at by him erases all the competent thoughts from his head. For literal fuck’s sake, is he not an adult who’s fucked just about everything that moves at this point? Shouldn’t he be able to deal with an (unreasonably) attractive religion teacher (of all fucking subjects) showing him kindness? 

 

But attractive isn’t the right word here. That doesn’t fit the man before him. ‘Attractive’ is what Crowley’s always been into. ‘Attractive’ describes the type of people that don’t leave a number they know Crowley won’t call after a one night stand. ‘Attractive’ entails harshness— uncontainable passion, an unbridled fire that demands destruction and tongues being shoved down throats and burner phones and heartbreak. 

 

Aziraphale is not attractive. He’s something else. Something Crowley isn’t quite familiar with. 

 

Something _beautiful._

 

“Some what?” Aziraphale asks, interrupting his, frankly inappropriate, musing once again. 

 

“Huh?” Crowley responds, like the eloquent son of a bitch he is. 

 

“You wanted something?” 

 

“Right, right, yeah.” He swallows, shaking his head a little as he remembers. “Yeah, could I get some water? For the Tylenol?” 

 

“Oh, absolutely!” Aziraphale says, smacking his head lightly in self-admonishment as he rushes to the nearby sink. “How inconsiderate of me, I—-“

 

“If you say ‘apologize,’ I’m gonna give myself a second black eye,” Crowley warns, beating him to the punch. 

 

And that causes an unexpectedly wonderful event to happen: Aziraphale laughs. Not nervously, or politely, but in genuine humor. He even tilts his face back a little, like he’s laughing up to the ceiling— the tenor sound soft and musical. 

 

Something uncomfortably warm shifts in Crowley’s chest. 

 

“If that’s the ultimatum, then I’ll have you know that I’m not sorry in the slightest,” Aziraphale says, looking back down at him, still smiling in earnest. 

 

Crowley takes the pills with the water Aziraphale (what a strange name, now that he thinks about it— even though he really has no room to talk) brought him, not even really feeling them go down. He’s distracted. 

 

Distracted by the strawberry curve of Aziraphale’s lips, and the adorable monochrome white of his suit and other things he really, really shouldn’t be thinking when they’re two complete strangers who are currently in the middle of a Catholic high school and have classes to teach soon, so kissing would probably be inadvisable— though that doesn’t keep Crowley from thinking about it… 

 

“Well, we best get going,” Aziraphale says, breaking the silence (which didn’t even feel awkward until it was over.) “The kids won’t wait forever.” 

 

“No,” Crowley agrees, fishing the spare sunglasses (he keeps them there for emergencies) out of his suit jacket and hopping down off the nurse’s table. “They won’t.” 

 

“Are you going to wear those all day?” Aziraphale asks, troubled, gesturing to the frames he’s settling over his face. “Inside?” 

 

“Do you have a better way to hide this little beauty?” Crowley responds, referring to his black eye. 

 

“I’m afraid I don’t.” Aziraphale frowns, leading them out of the bright room and back into the dim hall. “Once again, I am so—“ 

 

“Don’t say ‘sorry.’ I don’t even have a threat, just don’t say it,” Crowley interrupts, waving a dismissive hand through the air. 

 

“Not big on the impact of words, are you?” Aziraphale questions after a short pause— not maliciously, simply curious. 

 

“Just always been more of an action man myself,” Crowley explains, shrugging. “More of a sticks and stones type guy.” 

 

“Hm. Rather interesting philosophy.” 

 

Crowley’s not quite sure what to say to that (never mind his flattery at being called ‘interesting’), so he says nothing. 

 

Aziraphale walks him all the way up to his classroom, despite his loudly voiced protests that he can find the place on his own as he has been here before for prior summer meetings and his interview, thank you very much. The other man just simply won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, citing that it’s his duty as a teacher who’s been at the school for several years to help new staff anyway he can. Mostly, it’s irritating. But it's still a little bit nice to have someone care that he gets where he needs to go. To be cared about in any context, really. Not that he’d admit that. 

 

“Well, I wish you the very best of luck, my friend,” Aziraphale says as they arrive at his door. He smiles, and reaches out a gentle hand to rest on Crowley’s clothes wrist— squeezing through the fabric. “Not that you need it. I’m sure you’ll be magnificent!”

 

“Right,” Crowley says, trying to keep up an appearance of impassivity. The nonchalant charade has always worked for him before— nonsense in giving it up now. “Good luck to you as well.” 

 

“Right,” Aziraphale copies, nodding his head and removing his hand (which Crowley tries not to internally mourn the loss of, but does so nonetheless.) “I’m just four doors down if you need any help with anything.” 

 

Crowley’s about to assure him he’s a full grown man that’ll be just fine, but the bell rings and Aziraphale takes off like a bat out of hell for his room, calling out, “I’ll see you after school, Crowley!” and disappearing around the corner with another soft laugh that totally doesn’t make him feel lightheaded at all. 

 

Oh, Jesus. 

 

The day hasn’t even hardly started, and he’s already got a black eye to hide, ( _don’t fucking call it a crush_ ) to deal with, and a mandatory missed staff meeting to explain to Headmaster Gabriel. What a fucking mess.

 

_God._ First impressions aren’t always reliable. Crowley knows that. 

 

But if they're any indication, just this once, there's no question about it.

 

It's going to be a _very_ interesting year.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> :))))
> 
> come visit me on tumblr @WillowsAndWastelands
> 
> leave a comment if u enjoyed i lov hearing what u guys have to say!!!!
> 
> new chapter up soon!!!!


End file.
